


a piece of eternity

by babybel



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, Whump, classic who: gives steven a backstory that would fuck him up so bad and then never addresses it, me(ryan buzzfeed unsolved voice): lets get into it, there isn't a lot of violence/blood but i tagged it just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21826336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybel/pseuds/babybel
Summary: Steven was alone in that room, a prisoner on Mechanus, for two years. Or, more precisely, seven hundred and forty-eight days. He knows, because he counted every single one of them.basically a 'what happened to steven during his two years alone' fic
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	a piece of eternity

**Author's Note:**

> im very aware that this isn't quality writing but must a doctor who fanfiction be good??? isn't it enough for me to finish watching the chase and 11:30pm and then immediately write this until 2am?????

1

Steven stumbled from the wreck of his ship, hand clutched to his forearm, trying to staunch the bleeding. A piece of his console had torn up, sharp as ever, and pierced his arm right below the elbow. His head pounded, his lungs were full of smoke, but the worst thing in that moment were his ears. They wouldn’t stop ringing, and he couldn’t stand or walk straight. 

When his ship, too damaged from first the Krayt fighter’s fire and then the crash, exploded, he was thrown to the ground, and he couldn’t find it in him to get up. He was exhausted, he was in pain - a lot of pain - and he had to put all the energy he had into breathing. He lay there, on his back, on the jungle floor, and he could hear the crackling of the fire from his ship however many yards away it was. 

They’d both die here, he reasoned, him and his ship, and even that didn’t give him enough adrenaline to get to his feet. 

All he could smell was smoke, and he let his eyes fall closed. 

2

So. He hadn’t died. It was dark when he came to, and the forest had dropped drastically in temperature. The fire in his ship had gone out, but he had been too disoriented when he left it to know in which direction to head if he wanted to find it again. It was too dark to see it from where he was, and he didn’t fancy wandering off and exploring alone. 

He’d radio for help, that’s what he’d do. He pulled the flight radio out of the breast pocket of his suit and slowly got to his feet. Oh, he ached all over. His arm, the one that had been punctured, was completely numb, which surely wasn’t good, but in the moment it was better than the alternative. 

He switched the radio on, held it to his lips. “This is airman Steven Taylor, pilot of Red Fifty. Command, do you read me?”

He held his breath, listening intently, heart leaping at each slight interruption in the static. 

After a minute, he said. “Command, this is flight Red Fifty, do you read me? I took Krayt fire in Mechanus airspace, I’d assume that’s…” He spared a glance around, and the shapes of the jungle stood out vaguely and in a way that made his stomach clench. It was far too dark. “That’s where I am now. Ship is out of commission, there’s no way that thing’s getting back in the air.” He added, voice small, “Command?”

The static felt too loud, felt deafening, but at least it was drowning out whatever noises he’d be hearing if it was just him and the jungle, and surely those would be too much to handle on a night this dark.

He couldn’t just stay here, he reasoned. He’d find a clearing, wait there. The radio reception would be better in a clearing, and besides, he’d feel a bit safer. He had no idea what to expect, what exactly he should be scared of, but scared he was. 

“I’m requesting a drop ship from the station,” he continued, starting to pick his way across the foggy ground, staying well clear of the imposing foliage. “Once I’ve stopped moving, I’ll radio and you can get a fix on me. I’m just looking for a more secure location, because the jungle down here is…” He stopped, realizing he was providing nonessential information. He’d always been known to talk too much. 

The radio stayed on as he made his trek, just in case he’d get a response. He didn’t, and how he explained that to himself was that the foliage was simply too dense. It wasn’t that he wasn’t getting a response, it was that he wasn’t getting a signal. 

4

The plants - well, the fungi, more accurately - were terrible. During the day they were better, but the days on Mechanus were so short it felt like only a few hours of daylight and then an endless, stifling night. 

What they’d do is if you got anywhere near them, they’d just drape over you and start closing in on you and if you didn’t get out and away in time- 

Well, he didn’t know what would happen if he didn’t get out and away in time. At least, not yet. Nothing good, surely. So he avoided them, steering absolutely clear of them, and when he did get too close by mistake it would be a run for his life. He hadn’t found a clearing yet, and honestly, he wasn’t sure if there was one. 

Wouldn’t it be in character if it was all just a wild goose chase he was going on like the fool he was? 

A sort of comfort was the fact that the little panda doll had survived the crash along with him, safe in his pocket. Originally, it had been a running joke between him and a group of his buddies from the flight academy. One of them had picked it up before they left Earth for the station, and then there had been the long games of trying to hide it in each other’s quarters and seeing how long it took for someone to find it again. When he’d been selected as a solo pilot, they’d decided to give the thing to him, informing him through laughter that he’d need it more than they would. 

It was a silly little thing, but he looked at it - HiFi, that was what Jacobs had named it - and he was reminded that he wasn’t alone, even though he might be alone on this planet. His friends and commanders at the station were coordinating a rescue, probably at this very moment, as he navigated the jungle. 

That night, he found it. He’d glimpsed it from a distance, a light shining through the thick mycelium jungle, and had run to it. 

With a thrill, he reached it, and realized it was a path, all lit up. This was good -  _ brilliant _ \- for so many reasons. One, the fungi shrunk away from light, so it ensured his safety. Two, having a light in the overwhelming darkness was assuring, and made him feel comforted. Three, this was a path, an actual path, and that meant not only that he had direction and a clear way to go but that he wasn’t alone on Mechanus. There was someone else here. 

He followed the path until it led him to a sort of strange cave, and he realized that this wasn’t going to be miserable, and it wasn’t going to kill him. He’d wait here, and he’d be rescued in a few days if that, and it’d all be over. 

He couldn’t help smiling as he sat down in the cave, so relieved to find a dry floor, contrasting the wet foggy ground of the jungle. He set HiFi down next to him and pulled out his radio. “Command! This is Steven Taylor, flight Red Fifty. I’ve found a secure position and I’m safe to wait. Trace this signal, it should lead you to my location. See you soon.”

He switched the radio back off, and balled up his flight jacket as a pillow, ready for his first solid night’s sleep since landing. 

5

He woke to a sort of door in the cave that he hadn’t spotted last night wide open, and a pristine white almost elevator type thing on the other side of it. Sitting in that elevator was a large, metallic, spherical thing, adorned with buttons, ornaments, and a few blinking lights. 

He scrambled to his feet, snatching up HiFi and the radio. He’d never seen anything like the thing before, and he regarded it from what he considered a safe distance. 

After a minute, the thing emitted a low, almost gurgling mechanical sound, loud enough for him to know it was trying to communicate but not loud enough for him to tell what it was trying to say. 

He took a few steps closer. “Hello? Are you-” He felt silly saying ‘alive’ because the thing was so clearly robotic. “Did you make that path?” 

It made that sound again, that low, garbled attempt at speech. 

He closed the rest of the distance between them, stepping into the elevator with it. “It’s alright, you can talk to me. My name’s Steven.” 

The thing moved then, quicker than it should’ve been able to, based on its size and it’s awkward shape. In seconds, it has Steven’s arm pinned between its side and the wall of the elevator. 

Steven hissed as pressure was applied to the wound on his forearm, trying not to jump to conclusions. It was probably an accident. After all, what did silly little robots know about human anatomy? It didn’t have visible eyes, it probably hadn’t even seen him. “That- that hurts,” he said, probably louder than he should have, and he found himself out of breath. He could feel the scabs that had formed over the past few days cracking and pulling apart under the pressure, could feel blood soaking through the makeshift bandage he’d tied the wound up with. “Get off, please get off-” 

“Come to the white city,” the thing said, speech still quiet and horribly, mechanically distorted. 

“No, I- I’ve got to wait here,” Steven explained, trying not to panic. “I’m waiting for people, my friends, I’m waiting for them to come get me and they’re coming here to find me. I have to be here, you understand.” 

The thing shifted, getting closer to him, pushing harder. 

He screamed, his arm in so much pain he was dizzy. 

“Come to the white city,” it repeated, and then it moved back, and the elevator started to move, bearing them both up.

He fell to his knees, scared to look down at his arm. For a soldier, he’d never been much one for blood. He just focused on breathing, and he could feel sweat beading on his forehead, flushed with pain. He didn’t register the elevator having stopped until the thing started moving, and he stumbled to his feet to follow, too scared to do anything that might be construed as disobedience.

They went along a narrow bridge-like corridor, the robot and he. It had a ceiling and a floor, but not really any walls, and when he looked over the edge of the bridge he almost passed out. They were probably a thousand feet up. He could barely make out the ground below them. He didn’t look down again, just following the robot until they reached a large room, still all white, dotted with more of the robots. 

He stood near the exit back to the bridge and watched as his robot went to the others to exchange hushed grumbles. He told himself as long as he had his radio he’d be fine. He’d be fine. He’d be fine. He could just radio again, and the station would send a team down, and they’d rescue him. Oh! he realized, with a burst of only slightly forced optimism. The reception for the radio would be amazing up here. He’d get a signal in no time. 

The robots clustered over to him, moving around him, pushing him along in a way that felt almost like they were herding him. 

He went, letting them lead him to a doorway. He stepped through, into another empty white room, and when he turned back, the door had fallen from the ceiling, and he was closed in. 

The room was big enough. It was completely empty, and the walls were comprised of a strange bunch of what looked like panels. The ceiling, if it had a ceiling, was too white and too high up for him to make out. 

Well, didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be here for long. He took out the radio and switched it on. “Command, this is Steven Taylor. Red Fifty. This will be my location until you find me, I won’t be moving from here. The native life is-” He stopped, looking down at the radio, realizing that he wasn’t hearing any static. He checked the tiny window screen, and found it blank. 

The radio was dead. 

10

Days were monotonous, he was coming to realize. There was so little to do in the room that he was sure he’d go mad unless he was let out, and soon. He didn’t have a bed, so every night he tried to make himself as comfortable as he could on the floor. He didn’t even have anything for a pillow now; he’d left his flight jacket in the cave when the Mechanoid - that’s what the robots were called - had captured him. 

Because that’s what he was. A prisoner. 

He’d thrown the radio at a wall and broken it the day he realized it was dead, and now, regretful, he was staring down at each and every little piece he’d grouped back together on the floor. The Mechanoids had to be powered by something; if he could steal a battery and then fix the radio, he could have a chance to call the station. Since the first day, though, the door to the rest of the white city hadn’t been opened. They gave him water and a bit of food each morning, but that was through one of the panels on the wall. 

He was trying to figure out how to piece the shattered radio back together when panels along the wall started swinging open. This had never happened before. Usually, it was just one panel, or maybe two. Not this. 

The room was somewhat round, and now it was completely open, made up of a hundred windows too close together for him to slip through but giving the illusion of being not in his own room but in the larger room outside. Clustered around him, watching through the panels, were dozens of Mechanoids. 

He went up to the panels, looking out at them. “What?” he asked, and his voice broke. He realized he hadn’t spoken in days, and touched a hand to his throat. “What do you want?”

They were still, watching. 

He realized, with a sickening pang of dread, that this was a lot like the aquarium he’d seen pictures of in his favorite book growing up, except for they were the people, and he was the dolphin. 

“At least give me a bed, will you?” he asked. 

A low burble of confusion went through them, and he sighed. He pulled the holograph from his breast pocket, the one he always carried on missions. He held it up to them through the panel. 

Depicted on it was him and a few of his mates from the flight academy on one of their first days up at the station crowded onto one of the standard issue cots. 

He tapped the holograph. “A bed.” 

The Mechanoids made no comment, no sign of understanding, and kept watching. 

11

When he woke up, there was a bed against one of the walls. White sheets, neatly tucked in. So. There was a way to communicate, a way to get what he wanted. 

36

Very quickly, he learned that the Mechanoids wouldn’t give him whatever he wanted. When he asked for batteries, he got nothing. When he asked to leave, also nothing. Their observing him had become routine just like everything else. For around an hour a day, the panels all fell open, and the Mechanoids just grouped around and watched. 

He sat on his bed, staring across the room and through the open panels at them. He hated them, he realized. He hated their hideous shape and the way their speech sounded, however infrequently they talked. He hated that they were keeping him here. He hated that they were watching him. 

“Fuck off,” he shouted, surprised at how loud it was. He hadn’t heard anything loud since his ship crashed. Then, immediately, “I’m sorry,” because he didn’t know what they could or would do, and because a part of him felt almost bad. 

When the panels closed up, he looked over at HiFi. “I don’t know how long I can take this,” he said. “I’m going to talk because I don’t want my voice to stop working.” 

So he talked. 

112

He kept track of days on the walls - white like paper! Perfect for this! - with the pen he always kept on him for doing crosswords when he got bored and was parked in secure airspace. It was never a cumulative number, just another tally on a wall of many, many other tallies, but today he decided to count. Why not? 

“I have at least an hour before they come and watch,” he explained, justifying it to HiFi. “I’ll start… uh, I’ll start in the top right and work my way through.”

It took him around twenty minutes to count - he kept getting distracted and having to start over - but when he was finished, he took a step back from the wall. “A hundred and twelve days,” he said slowly. “I’ve been here over a hundred- but that can’t be right, can it?” It felt simultaneously like he’d been there forever and like he’d only been there a month. “No, I must be getting the numbers wrong, because if this is right then I’ve really been here for a hundred days and that means that no one’s come to rescue me in months and that means that no one’s coming and that’s…” 

He sat down on his bed, staring up at all the tally marks. He felt an ugly tension closing in first on his chest, then on his throat, and then he was crying. 

384

He’d asked for wood and they’d given him wood. He’d asked for rope and they’d given him rope. He’d asked for nails and screws and a hammer and for the last several months he’d been building, just for something to do. He could take up entire days with this, let them float by in the whirl of construction, and that was truly blessed. He built up and up and up, filling in the impressive height of his room. 

He was laying the final floorboards to the top layer of his structure. He’d built up to the ceiling; he couldn’t go any further. His hands were calloused now, and didn’t feel anything anymore when he swung the hammer. 

He sat back on his heels and looked down at the structure, realizing he was finished. He let out a breath. “I’m done,” he yelled down to HiFi. “I’m done, I did it!” 

He looked up at the ceiling, easily within reach, and spotted something that could be a type of handle on it. A thrill went through him. He hadn’t even thought of life outside the room in so long, let alone the prospect of escape. Feeling genuine excitement was so foreign to him now that he got almost dizzy. 

He closed a hand around the little handle and pushed up. He was met with no resistance, and a portion of the ceiling swung up just like the panels on the walls did. Heart in his throat, he pulled himself up through the trapdoor, and breathed fresh air for the first time in over a year.

The roof of his room looked out over the very edge of the white city, so if he were to peer down over the little parapet, he’d be seeing the jungle ground, fifteen hundred feet down, rather than the somewhat closer ground of the rest of the city. He realized that he might just be able to escape, find a way down. 

The sheer height was enough to make his heart beat too quickly, but he figured he’d be able to push through that for a chance to leave. Taking it in, only able to go back down through the trap door because he knew he could climb back up and return, he landed safely back on the top floor of his structure. 

He hurried down the ladders and ropes until he reached the ground. “I forgot what it looked like,” he said to HiFi as he got his breath back. “The actual world. I- I forgot what it looked like. And now I can go whenever I want! I can go and sit up there and just- look at it!”

He sat on the floor, staring up at his magnificent structure. “This isn’t so terrible,” he commented, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride, looking at it. “It could be a whole lot worse.” 

402

He was right when he’d said it could get worse. It did get worse. When he asked for rope, and specified a length, the Mechanoids must have put together what he’d use it for, and after that they stopped giving him the things he asked for. 

He started catching sight of other people, people that surely couldn’t be there, but he’d get excited and he’d rush to them, the entire time knowing that they were his imagination, and when he reached them and found nothing he still was able to feel this tremendous sense of disappointment.

One night up on the roof - he’d taken to spending as much time as possible out there, longing for open air and sun and wind - he saw Harley, one of his old mates who should be on the station, sitting across from him. He pointed up at the stars. “This planet’s actually nice when you’re not on the ground with all the carnivorous…” He stopped, realizing he couldn’t actually remember what was so dangerous about being down in the jungle. “It’s not bad,” he said quickly, not wanting Harley to realize he was forgetting. “The stars are nice.” 

Harley didn’t say anything.

“Why- um.” He looked down, knowing he shouldn’t bring this up. He did anyway, though, trying to make out his own hands in his lap in the dark. “Why didn’t you come back for me?”

He looked quickly over at Harley, then back down. 

“Is it because you couldn’t find me? Did you look?” He smiled, picturing them all making a vast and frantic search of the jungle, trying to locate him. Then his smile dropped. “You probably didn’t, did you. You didn’t even land.” He sighed. “Was it because I talked too much? Or- or because I took too many risks piloting? Did they think it was- I don’t know, convenient? Were they happy when they heard my ship crashed? Were they? Were they? Harley- were they?”

He stared at the pile of shapes - the parapet, a bit of a little pulley mechanism - whose silhouette against the starlight had made up the form of Harley. 

Then he scrambled to get to the trapdoor, dropped down to his structure, and sat there, legs hugged to his chest, shaking. 

571

He woke up one morning and realized that he couldn’t remember his name. 

He sat up in bed, heart racing, and racked his mind for it. He’d said it so many times, he’d said it a million times, he couldn’t have just- forgotten. 

He tried not to get too panicked, but his hands were shaking, and he glanced around his room frantically, like his name was lying somewhere, physically displaced. He could feel an imprint of it in his head, remember its outline, remember some of the shapes his mouth made to say it. Muscle memory, but it wasn’t strong enough. 

He remembered the phonetics. If his name was a song, he could remember the tune, just not the words. 

Deep breaths. Couldn’t let this get away from him. 

He ran through all the memories he still had, trying to think of any scenario where he must’ve introduced himself. He could _remember_ _saying it_ , even after landing, saying it into that little radio he’d broken, but he couldn’t recall it for the life of him. 

He tried to put his mind off it, tried to occupy himself with other things and other thoughts, but he’d already built all there was to build of his structure months ago, and counting the tallies on the wall would just make him feel sick. There wasn’t much else to do. 

When the panels opened, he rushed to them. “What’s my name?” he asked the Mechanoids, looking from robot to robot. “What’s my name? Please, I must have told you my name. What is it?”

The Mechanoids shifted, rolling back and forth, but none of them spoke. 

“What’s my name?” he yelled, seized with the sudden urge to reach out and try to break them. He tried for one closest to his room, tried to grab its ugly little antenna and smash its little lights, but it moved out of the way so quickly. 

The panels slammed shut after that, far before the usual observation time was over. 

He was sitting halfway up his structure that night when he remembered, easy as breathing, easy as anything. 

Steven Taylor, flight Red Fifty. The phonetics matched up perfectly. He couldn’t believe he’d ever forgotten it.

He let out a breath, washed in relief. “Steven Taylor,” he said aloud. “I’m Steven Taylor, my name is Steven Taylor.”

He was so, so settled, and he realized that his anxiety over forgetting it had exhausted him. 

He went down to the ground, repeating his name over and over just in case he forgot it on the way down, and crossed over to the wall, pen uncapped. He stopped. Writing his whole name would waste a lot of ink, and he had to use it to keep track of days. If his pen ran out and he didn’t know how many days had passed - not that he ever counted the tally marks, not anymore - he’d probably die. 

“I’ll just say it,” he told HiFi, capping the pen with painful resignation. Ink was just a luxury he couldn’t afford, no matter how much of a risk forgetting was. He marked down days, not anything else. The pen was just for days. “I’ll say it every morning and I won’t forget it.”

He sighed, and put the pen down under his pillow, where he kept it. 

That night, he didn’t sleep. He went up to a middle-level floor on his structure and paced in circles, hands to his forehead, repeating his name over and over and over and over. 

“I’m Steven. I’m Steven. Steven. Steven. Steven.” 

625

He stood at the top of his roof, having made the climb up his structure and through the trap door, looking down over the parapet. It was dark, and it was fifteen hundred feet down, and he couldn’t see the ground. It felt like he was just staring into nothingness. 

He didn’t realize he was moving until he had a leg over the parapet, and then he froze, breath catching in his throat. His heart was racing, but he didn’t pull himself safely back onto the roof. 

It made sense! This made sense. This seemed like it fit the natural progression of things. No one was coming to rescue him. He’d spent three days doing calculations and had come up with odds- two thousand to one against him. He was going to die here, and he’d already built everything he was going to build on his structure anyway. He didn’t have anything left to do but mark down days and talk nonsense and stand there while the Mechanoids watched him. Oh, to never be watched again. 

Maybe someone would find his body. They certainly wouldn’t find him while he was alive, and the thought of escaping the monotony was so tempting. 

_ But _ , a voice in the back of his head said,  _ what about routine? You’re almost at a thousand days, don’t you want to get to a thousand days? You’re so close. A thousand marks on the wall. That would be beyond satisfying.  _

He took a shaky breath. He did have to get to a thousand days, that was a good point. And it was only three hundred and seventy-five days off. Five seventy-fives. Five seventy-fives wasn’t even long, it was only five seventy-fives, and seventy-five days passed quickly. 

Carefully, carefully, he stepped back onto the roof, and once both feet were down his knees gave out and he fell, cheek smacking the hard ceramic that made up the white city. He pulled himself to his hands and knees and crawled back to the trap door, lowering himself down to his structure. 

He lay on his side, curled into himself, not trusting himself enough to make the climb back down to his bed. He slept - tried to sleep - right there on the structure. 

748

He was up on the structure tying and retying knots just for something to do when he heard voices. Not the disgusting soft little voices of the Mechanoids, but actual human voices. They weren’t real, but when had that ever stopped him before?

He made his way as fast as he could down the ladders and steps of the structure - he wanted to catch them before they disappeared - tumbling down the last flight to the ground and coming face to face with a human man. 

“Are you real?” he asked. Force of habit. 

“Who are you?” the man inquired, looking at him funny. 

A jolt of realization went through him. They - the man and then the two women sitting on his bed and the older person standing with them - were completely visible, completely three dimensional, completely physically there. His heart skipped a beat. “You are real!”

He stumbled through a thousand thoughts at once, trying to voice some of them, only getting halfway through some before heading right on to another. He couldn’t stop smiling. It hadn’t really hit him yet, it still felt like a dream or a trick or a hallucination. He realized he was forgetting something, and said, “I’m Steven Taylor, flight Red Fifty.” 

“Well, we’ve learned something: his name,” the old fellow said, their words accompanied by an amused little chuckle. 

“Yes,” agreed the woman, looking up from the bed where she sat with the girl. “Steven Taylor.” 

Hearing his name was so affirming, so actualizing. What happened to him was real. It had happened. He’d gone through it and he was still here and he was still Steven Taylor. “Say that again,” he pleaded, trying to take a step closer to her but being stopped by the other man, who put a hand to his chest. 

Physical contact, actual, real contact with another human being. It knocked the air out of his lungs, and he resisted the urge to grab the man’s hand and hold it there, against his chest. 

“Steven Taylor,” the woman said slowly, her smile dropping, a hint of apprehension creeping into her voice. 

He repeated it quietly. He was real. He was still real. 

Then he kept talking - he wasn’t sure if he was ever going to be able to stop - barely pausing long enough to breathe, laughing in between words. He was happy. He was so, so happy. 

He learned their names. The man was Ian, the woman Barbara, the girl Vicki, and the older person was called the Doctor, although that didn’t seem much like a name. He didn’t care. They could’ve been called Dirt and Moss and things like that and it wouldn’t have mattered because they were  _ here _ . 

He explained the Mechanoids to them, using information he’d learned over the years he’d been prisoner, because yes, it had been years. Saying it out loud had shocked him, but he’d brushed past it for the sake of keeping conversation going. He explained his crash landing, and how the Mechanoids had found him. 

“Captured?” Barbara asked, looking shocked. “Do you mean- you’re a prisoner?”

“What- d’you think I’d stay here otherwise?” he retorted, perhaps a little too aggressively. “I’m just like you. We’re all prisoners.”

They were all looking at him like he had to be wrong. 

The joy he’d felt at seeing them was fading, quickly replaced by a painful awareness of how selfish he’d been. He was so caught up in the relief that came with interaction that he’d forgotten that they were trapped too. They were going to suffer too. And as much as he wanted to shake their hands as much as they’d let him and learn all about them and talk to them for hours and hours and hours, their arrival had lost any aspect of it that had been good. He looked at them all, and then out at the rest of the room; out at the rest of his world. “Help yourself to a piece of eternity.”

**Author's Note:**

> all the dialogue between him and the tardis team is canon dialogue. also why didn't they ever let steven process any of his trauma in canon im mad  
> find me on tumblr @lesbiandonnanoble !


End file.
